BOOK II.
DIET.
Enough of air. A desart subject now,
Rougher and wilder, rises to my sight.
A barren waste, where not a garland grows
To bind the muse’s brow; not even a proud
Stupendous solitude frowns o’er the heath, 5
To rouse a noble horror in the soul:
But rugged paths fatigue, and error leads
Thro’ endless labyrinths the devious feet.
Farewel, etherial fields! the humbler arts